


The Pie Saga of Rufus Hawke

by PoboboProbably



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pie, Purple Hawke, Silly Hawke, divine judgment, horrible depressing nonsense, japanese dating sim, recurring bouts of pie-in-the-face, terrible luck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoboboProbably/pseuds/PoboboProbably
Summary: This is a series of responses to /r/dragonage writing prompt threads that all feature two things: Rufus Hawke and pies hitting him in the face. They're not in chronological order, just in order of when I wrote them. I'll include the prompts before each chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't ever do that again."

Rufus eyed his opponent from across the table. A shifty glance here, a twitch of the fingers there. One way or another, this would be over soon. He noticed the slight fear in his enemy's face: the hard swallow, the focused eyes, and beady balls of sweat forming on the brow. Classic signs of a foe who knows he's outmatched. Rufus grinned before making the first move.

"All in!" he shouted, slamming his hand on the hard wood of the table, but not yet revealing its contents.

"Damn it, I fold," Varric told him, tossing his hand aside and reluctantly ceding the prize to his adversary. "I'm not sure if you're getting better or I'm getting worse, but either way, I'm starting to question whether this Wicked Grace thing is really worth it."

"Oh, it is _definitely_ worth it," Rufus assured him, now focusing his attention on his waiting reward. "That was a shitty hand anyway, but it got me this pie."

Rufus always loved his pies. Chicken pot, fish and egg, raspberry liver. Whatever the contents, pies were always good in his book. And so he took to his prize with a childlike giddiness and anticipation that made his smug smile all the more intolerable to his cheated foe. To make matters worse, Rufus was an incorrigible braggart, gloating endlessly about his victory while staring lustfully at his prize.

"What was it you said, Varric? 'Best in the city'? 'No pies like Gerran's pies'? Well, I'll be the judge of that, won't I? Oh yes, I think I will. I'll be the judge of every last mouthwateringly savory bite of juicy meaty pie-y goodness! And I'm not planning on sharing, so you'd best forget about how jealous you are that I get to enjoy it and you don't! It's for the best that way, really, don't you thi-- _mmmmphmmmgmrmgmmmph!!!_ "

A gleeful Varric stood still for several moments before finally allowing Hawke to lift his face up from his now spoiled spoils. Rufus' piercing eyes met his from beneath a soupy curtain of vegetables and meat chunks. " _Never. Again. Is that clear?_ "

"Sure, Hawke. Sure."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For once, we agree on something."

"Hawke, you can't just shave one half of your face and not the other, it doesn't work like that," Isabela told him.

"And just why not, I wonder? I've done it before. People in Ferelden didn't give me shit for it."

"Which illustrates my point exactly. Fereldan standards are..."  
Rufus' perfectly manicured hand covered Isabela's mouth firmly to silence her. The pair were walking home from the Hanged Man when they came across a couple of thugs harassing an exhausted looking woman in the street. They were clearly members of the Coterie roughing up a laborer for their own gain--not something Rufus was willing to forgive.

"Please, no, I'm catering a party in Hightown tonight and I can't be late! I don't get paid if I'm late!" the poor woman sobbed. Catering a party in Hightown is bad enough without being accosted by petty thieves.

"Oi, someone's coming. Quick, just gut her and let's be done with it!" one of them said.

"Come on, Cutter, no need to live up to your name! That's not how we do business at the Coterie," the other responded. "Besides, if our audience knows what's good for 'em, they won't come any nearer. And in any event, we can't just stick this lovely lady here and take her goods. We've gotta really rough 'er up! Teach her a lesson. Just killing her is far less effective."

"For once, the Coterie and I agree on something!" Rufus shouted. "Isabela, care to make the first move?"

"Oh, I'll make _all_ the moves here, Rufus, don't you worry. Just stand back and stare in awe. That's what you're best at, isn't it?"

Rufus took exception to her last comment. "That was one time! And in my defense, your breasts looked _particularly_ heaving that day!"

Isabela paid no mind to Rufus' protest, instead making short work of the two thieves without even unsheathing her daggers. Once they lay writhing on the floor, their intended victim collapsed into a star-struck marathon of _thank yous_ and _by-the-Makers_ that left Isabela feeling quite satisfied with her work. "Oh, I can never repay you! Please, take this. I know it's not much, but it's all I can spare, really. I always bake extra, just in case the nobles get rowdy, but this is as good a reason as any to give away a pie!"

Before the pie was safely in Isabela's hands, however, one of the thugs clawed at the baker's ankles, causing her to yelp and toss it wildly in the air in her fear. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!" she cried, now hoping for mercy at the sight of Rufus' angry expression, or what she could see of it in any case.

From behind his fruity mask, Rufus simply sighed. "Raspberry pie at a dinner party? That's _so_ obvious."

_Fun fact: the voice I heard in my head while writing the dialogue for the baker was Minnie Driver's, particularly referencing her performance as Jane in Disney's Tarzan. Even more particularly referencing the scene where she's just met Tarzan and is trying to climb down a tree and it starts raining right after she says "Oh, it can't get any worse, can it?"_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your character just woke from a nightmares and is still terrified. What was the nightmare, and the aftermath.

Rufus sat bolt upright in his bed, suddenly shocked out of his not-so-peaceful slumber. Isabela lay next to him, still asleep but mumbling something about "it was actually that big, I swear." Rather than comfort him, however, seeing her delicate curves half-covered by the sheets made Rufus uneasy. After all, it's not every day the Champion of Kirkwall is treated to a sex dream about Knight Commander Meredith.

He was at the Gallows, ready to blow off some steam about some injustice or other that the Templars had inflicted upon the city's mages, when the guardsmen let him through to see Meredith without any theatrics or "due process." Normally the Templars make a huge fuss about actually getting _in_ to the Gallows, but this time they let him pass without issue. It was strange, he'd admitted, but even then he wasn't aware that he was dreaming. When he arrived at Meredith's office, slightly confused but still fuming, he found the commander without her armor. Instead, she wore only the surprisingly low-cut gown that sat beneath it. He flew into a rage about how the Templars were treating mages unfairly by only letting them read books with green covers and only letting them eat sandwiches on Tuesdays or if it was raining, but Meredith made short work of his complaints.

"I understand your feelings on the matter, Champion, but I'm afraid I can't budge on this. Giving the mages free reign over the kitchens would plunge Kirkwall into chaos! But perhaps there's another way we can... _settle our differences_ ," she told him. Meredith's face took on a seductive look while she slowly disrobed, and before Rufus knew it, she was on him. "See? All those worries about the mages are just _melting away_ aren't they?" she asked, now whispering in his ear.

Rufus chose not to relive the dream's climactic end, shuddering at the very thought. Why _Meredith_ , of all people? He and the knight-commander didn't exactly get along, what with her engaging in extreme oppression and him with the apostate sister. Still, the most disturbing thing about the dream (aside from waking up with soiled smallclothes, that is) was that he _enjoyed_ it. All those worries were indeed melting away during the act. Horrifying. Feeling that he needed some air and a new pair of drawers, he decided to make his way to the manor's outdoor balcony. _I should probably light a candle_ , he thought, before being too lazy to actually do so.

It was not long before he came to regret this decision, however: a groggy mind and a lack of light do not a safe walk make. Forgetting that Bodahn had moved a couple of storage chests into the hall to repaint the walls, Rufus immediately stubbed his toe upon leaving the bedroom, sending him reeling backwards and over the mezzanine's handrail. As luck would have it, he landed face down on the dinner table, which had also been moved from its usual location, and found himself smothered by the chocolate pie he hadn't finished earlier that night.

"Oh you habb _godd_ do be _kiddigh_ be!!!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this one is technically about another OC of mine, Lera Trevelyan, but I included a pie cameo in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DA Inquisition: The last night of your OC before the Conclave or before they left for Conclave

"So, we're off to Ferelden tomorrow, right?" Lera asked her carriage driver. "Just the runt of House Trevelyan and her faithful driver?"

"With respect, my lady, you're quite aware that's not the case. We'll be accompanied by an entire caravan until we reach the Temple. With any luck, we can help bring an end to this pointless war and House Trevelyan's runt will have gained some respect from her elders at last," he answered.

"Right. A caravan journey. Because those have always worked out so well for me," Lera responded grimly. She'd maintained a close relationship with Barton, her driver, ever since he was assigned to her eight years prior. A former guardsman, Barton taught Lera how to fight in close quarters: she had tremendous skill with a bow when they met, but very little practical knowledge about melee combat. The lessons he gave her provided an excellent escape from the monotonous and dreary life favored by her class and Chantry obsessed family. Over the course of her martial education, Barton became something of an unofficial uncle to her, though the fatherly nature of his relationship with her far surpassed that of her biological father's. Suffice it to say that Lera was giddy with anticipation to depart the Free Marches.

"Now that I think about it, Barton, who says we need to wait until tomorrow? The itinerary?" she asked.

"Quite right. The itinerary."

"Well, Maker damn the itinerary! Let's go now!" Lera implored. Barton looked unimpressed by her impatience.

"I'm afraid that will not be possible, lady. I know you lack fondness for your relatives, but my job and your future still depend on them. Best not to upset them, I think. We leave at dawn at the earliest," Barton told her. Lera noticed the regret in his voice even as he spoke the words. She could tell he wanted to leave just as quickly as she did.

"Oh, you're no fun. Can we at least go to the outskirts? Anything to be out of Ostwick."

"Very well," replied Barton, who left the house and returned shortly, reins in hand. "Hop in."

All the familiar sites passed by the carriage as Lera and Barton made their way to the exterior of Ostwick. The jeweler's shop, the tailor, the blacksmith near the noble estates. Closer to the edge of the city, a bakery, a laundry, and more than a couple brothels. Lera, despite having no love for her home life, was rather content among the rabble of Ostwick. _The people here are not nearly as stuffy and boring as the nobles_ , she would say. Before long, they reached the small square in which Lera's favorite tavern was located. Having earned the barkeep's favor with her continued business, Lera developed a habit of entering through the back door, though this often required trudging through a muddy alley.

"Coming in, Barton?" she asked her driver, who hadn't taken his eyes off the road even as Lera dismounted the carriage.

"What? Are you crazy, Lera? I have to watch the carriage!" His tone was far more casual now that they'd escaped the confines of the noble district.

"Oh, just this once! There's not even anything valuable in the carriage, and it's not as though that's our only one! I have no problem walking back home, either. Anything to make the journey longer, I say. Quit being such a worrywart and come with me! I'll even pay for the drinks, if that's yo-"

"Oh, _alright_!" Barton said, feigning annoyance at Lera's persistence. The pair headed through the alley.

"Watch your step, looks like someone was very hungry here," Lera advised, pointing to a caved-in nug pie sitting in the mud with scraggly hairs embedded in the filling. What Lera failed to notice was the set of tracks leading towards and away from the pie. Had she been more observant, she would have read the signs of what happened there: someone had made off with the pie, likely illegally given their haste, and run through the alley while holding it. Unaware of the thick mud in the alley, they'd inadvertently anchored their boot into the ground and fallen forward, no doubt receiving a face full of pie in the process. Abandoning the boot and the pie, they must have run off, making a hasty and careless attempt to cover their tracks in the process.

Inside, Lera and Barton shared a pint of ale while Lera said her goodbyes to the barkeep, knowing it would be months before she returned. As thanks for his years of service, Lera bought a round for everyone in the tavern. She and Barton ended up renting separate rooms in the tavern that night, both far too drunk to return to the estate. That night would be Lera's happiest for a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are technically two responses, but I'll merge them because the second continues the story of the first. The big TO BE CONTINUED marks the border between the two prompts I responded to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write an occurrence of your character completely losing it.
> 
> An unlikely romance among the companions/advisers/npcs.

Kirkwall's nobles entered into an unofficial war of extravagance in 9:36 Dragon. A cyclical pattern of one-upmanship that devolved into a public competition for the title of "most noble noble," week after week of pointless distraction consumed the whole of Hightown. On one particular week, the nobles organized a bake-off, each hoisting up their personal chefs and hoping to win the prize of best party host. As Champion of Kirkwall, Rufus Hawke was invited to judge. He accepted the invitation gladly, though he may not have done so if he'd known what awaited him at the bake-off, for the subject of that week's competition was none other than pie.

Having already agreed, however, Rufus was stuck there, hoping for the best. With all the chefs assembled in one square of Hightown ready to show off their pies at their individual stalls, Rufus sampled slice after slice of pie, from deliciously tart raspberries to scrumptiously sweet apples, and wholesome and hearty meat pies to boot. He'd never had so much pie in one day, and the complete and utter lack of disastrous pie-related mishaps made the event one of Rufus' happiest outings. He had no idea how to decide on a best pie, though. How could he? After all, with so many different varieties and so many talented bakers, no one pie could single-handedly trounce the rest. When he stepped up to the podium to declare what everyone thought would be the competition's winner, he instead told them that he loved each and every pie equally, and could not, therefore, decide on a victor.

Naturally, this did not sit well with the nobles, nor their chefs, all of which thrived on competition. Arguments broke out, there were demands that Rufus pick a winner at random, and before long, pies were flying through the air in what became a calamitous confectionery food fight, and Rufus was caught squarely in the middle.

But he'd come prepared. Years of training and experience had honed his reflexes and taught him to keep a watchful eye out for rogue pies. He dodged left, he dodged right, he lunged forward and stepped back. He was untouchable. Moving through the square like a leaf on the wind, he managed to avoid being hit by even a single passing particle of projectile pastry and made it safely back to his estate in Hightown. As luck would have it, however, Rufus had forgotten that his status as a wealthy homeowner in Hightown meant that he, too, had access to a personal chef. Despite never having met the man, Bodahn had let him into the manor to prepare his own pie for Rufus to taste. And when Rufus entered his home, the chef was so excited to present his dessert to him that he sprinted to the foyer, pie in hand. But the laborious day of baking had proven detrimental to the house's tidiness, and a rogue puddle of milk and flour had found its way to the floor near the entryway. Everything moved in slow motion. Every muscle in Rufus' body tensed as he prepared to face the inevitable. Sure enough, the baker's careless steps landed directly on the messy ingredients, causing him to lose his balance and lurch forward, unhanding the pie in order to break his fall.

As it traveled through the air headed directly for his face, Rufus pondered whether his constant pie-related misfortunes were some form of divine retribution. Perhaps Bethany was right, and he should shave his beard. Or maybe Isabela wasn't being satisfied in bed. There had to be some reason, some grand explanation for his repeated run-ins with ill-fated pies, he thought, as the crust broke over his perfectly chiseled nose and the first tides of a warm filling began to flood his cheeks. Would it be peach this time? Perhaps blueberry? None could say but the baker, who was currently struggling to keep his teeth from shattering on the ceramic tile. As the taste of the pie finally played upon his taste buds, he realized the pie was in fact filled with kiwi and raisins. That was new. New, and delicious, actually. But even a perfectly made pie such as this one could not stem his boiling anger. Such a waste of valuable pie could not be tolerated.

_**"Oh, Maker damn you, you clumsy nug-humping buffoon!!!! May you never work in this city again!!!"** _

And so it was. Shamed and dishonored, the baker fled Kirkwall with a pie-covered Rufus hot on his trail, hoping to reach the city gates before the Champion could catch him up. With his reputation irreparably damaged, the viscount was forced to permantently banish the baker from Kirkwall, though rumor told that his exploits would not be ended there. Years later, during his stay at Skyhold, Rufus came face to face with that very baker while inspecting the kitchens...

_TO BE CONTINUED_

_...NOW!_

Skyhold. It wasn't quite the place Rufus had expected it to be. With an organization as formidable as the Inquisition behind its gates, he'd assumed a great air of seriousness would pervade every second within the castle's walls. But instead, as life bustled on in the courtyard and in the main hall and in the various nooks and crannies, it all had the appearance of being a very active campground. This atmosphere was a surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one, Rufus thought. Being that his duties with the Inquisitor revolved around Grey Warden troubles in far away lands, most of his time at Skyhold would be spent in leisure. One afternoon, while trying to count the number of stones in one of the tavern's walls, he was greeted by an elven servant of no more than thirty years.

"Two thousand six hundred and eleven," a bright voice spoke from behind him.

"Beg your pardon?"

"You're counting the stones, right? Two thousand six hundred and eleven," she repeated.

"Er, yes I was. How did you know?"

"Know that you were counting them or know how many there are?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Well, you had the look about you. Finger pointing over and over, lips moving subtly. It was pretty obvious. As for the stones, Skyhold is boring," she explained. The girl's hazel eyes shone brightly despite the dark bags underneath them. Fiery hair dangled messily around her face in an unkempt ponytail that openly displayed her elven ears. Her pale face was unmarked by vallaslin. Not a Dalish elf, then.

"I'd go with relaxing, myself," Rufus told her, glad to be in such a peaceful place for once.

"I envy you then. I wish I could just sit down and enjoy the quiet, but I miss the excitement in Denerim. The alienage there was always alive with some kind of conflict."

Rufus briefly thought of his own experiences with city life before immediately deciding that repressing those memories was a far better option. "When you've messed about with Kirkwall's problems for as long as I have, you'll wish you could be in Skyhold forever."

"Wait a minute. Kirkwall? _The_ Kirkwall? Are you Hawke!?" she asked.

"Unfortunately."

"Then you can help me!"

"Oh, I highly doubt that," Rufus answered. More trouble? More fighting? Could he not gain a moment of peace?

"But you were with Isabela, weren't you?" Rufus' confused stare merited some explanation. "Look, word travels fast, and everyone knows about you and your friends. But more importantly, I heard from my cousin that Isabela is gorgeous. If you swung _that_ , you can help me swing someone else, can't you?"

"Is this a joke? Am I being pranked right now? Be honest with me, there's a stenographer behind that corner scribbling down everything we're saying, right?"

Paying no mind to his bewilderment, the girl barreled forward with her request. "I work in the kitchens, alright? There's a chef there, and ever since we met we've been flirting like crazy, but I just can't seem to get this to go any further! You _have_ to help me! I'm not really used to being, you know, _domestic_. But with a little advice I'm sure I can manage!"

Of all the things he'd be doing at Skyhold, playing matchmaker was certainly among the least expected. Having had his counting game spoiled, Rufus figured he might as well go for it. And so began a long walk about the Skyhold grounds replete with dizzying descriptions of the chef's character and frustrating accounts of flirtatious failures. Rufus studied this trivia furiously, aiming to construct a complete profile of this chef, the better to play cupid with. He'd been a chef all his life and had been invited to the parties and properties of scores of nobles the world over. He'd been to Kirkwall once, some years prior to the Inquisition's founding, but spent most of his time in Antiva and Northern Ferelden. His pastries were the delight of many courts, though a sense of duty had brought him to Skyhold to keep the Inquisition as well fed as possible. By the time darkness was beginning to fall over the castle, Rufus felt ready to help his new friend capture her prey.

"Right then. When's the next time you're seeing him?" he asked.

"Well, there's always a good chance of running into him in the kitchens, but the next scheduled meeting isn't for another... wait." A look of horror played upon her face. "SHIT! I'm late! Shit, shit, _shit_! Quickly, we have to go to the kitchens! I was supposed to meet him there before sundown! Shit!"

Speeding down from the battlements and through the courtyard, the pair made their way into the kitchens, somewhere along the way forgetting that Rufus had not actually been invited to join them. When they arrived, rather than find themselves mired in the bustle of a busy kitchen, they were immersed in a quiet and candle lit environment with a small table at its center. The gentle sway of a chandelier above the table gave it a sort of cozy spotlight effect. The table was flanked by two fancy looking chairs and was partially set with expensive silverware. The whole affair was rather romantic. Their silent confusion was interrupted by the clanking of metal in an adjacent room and an accompanying sigh.

"Antonio, is that you?" the elf asked, inadvertently causing many pots and pans to crash upon the floor in the next room.

"My, you frightened me!" cried a familiar voice. Rufus could swear he'd heard it before, but couldn't remember where or when.

"Antonio, is all of this here for me?"

"Of course it is, my dear! I was beginning to worry you may not show up! Unfortunately the main course has gone off, but dessert is still perfectly edible." The shuffle of footsteps approached just as Rufus was starting to recognize the man behind the voice. "Come, sit down, and let us talk! I made us a delicious kiwi and raisin pie!" His excitement was immediately cut off by the audible gasp that seeing Rufus had elicited.

" _YOU!_ " they cried simultaneously.

"Ser Hawke, it's... been so long! Please, allow me to offer you my sincerest apologies for what happened last time," Antonio said with a solemn bow.

"Is this a set up?!" Rufus asked his elven friend, furious and suspicious.

"A set up? What do you mean?" was her bewildered response.

"So you just _happened_ to bake a kiwi and raisin pie while I was here?" he asked, turning to the chef.

"It is my best pie! I am sorry, I was only trying to impress your beautiful friend!"

"You think I'm beautiful?" she asked, blushing.

"Never mind that!" Rufus snapped. "This man has been out to get me ever since I had him banished from Kirkwall!"

"Once again, Champion, I am deeply sorry for what happened that day!"

"You were banished from Kirkwall?! Is _that_ why you only went there once? Are you some kind of criminal?!" the girl asked, shocked. While Rufus answered in the affirmative, the chef did his best to deny the accusation.

"He assaulted me with the very same pie he is holding in his hands this instant! And it looks as though he has a hankering to do it again. Stand back, or this will get messy," Rufus warned, though it was unclear to whom he directed the warning.

"I mean you no harm! I swear!" cried Antonio, carefully putting the pie down on the table to prove his innocence.

"We'll see about that, won't we?" Rufus threatened, warning the elf not to take her eyes off the chef while he frantically searched the kitchen for possible traps. He lit several candles while making the rounds, eliminating the romantic lighting in the room and giving himself the freedom to investigate the chandelier. Stepping up onto one of the chairs, he found the chandelier's lit candles at eye level, blowing out each once before lifting it to check for sabotage. "Maker, it's quite dusty up here. Shouldn't you two be keeping the kitchens clean? That's not very... very..."

Before Rufus could finish his thought, a massive, dust induced sneeze erupted from his nose, causing him to smash his forehead into the chandelier before falling backwards onto the hard floor.

"Are you alright?" the elf asked him, equal parts confused and concerned. Antonio simply winced, hoping the worst could be avoided. Miraculously, though Rufus' hip bone was in a great deal of pain and there were no doubt several chips in the chair's finish, both the table and the pie remained untouched. Several seconds of near perfect silence followed which were broken only by the slight creak of the swinging chandelier.

"I've been through worse, thank you." Rufus sat up from the ground, rubbing his forehead and looking at his new surroundings. A perfectly ruined date. "I seem to have made quite the ass out of myself. I'm sorry for ruining your special night." He swallowed, mustering the courage to take his apology one step further. "And... and I'm sorry for getting you banished from Kirkwall, Antonio. It wasn't your fault."

"I, er... thank you, Ser Hawke. That means a lot."

"Well, I suppose I'd better get out of your hair, then. Do try to enjoy what's left of your night, you lovebirds," Rufus advised. But before he could lift himself from the floor, the chandelier fell from its place on the ceiling, shattering whatever hope Rufus had for a clean escape in the split second it took to land on the table and catapult the pie directly into his face. He did not react. Not at first. Instead, he patiently waited for the pie to fall from his face and onto his lap, his breathing regular but far from calm. Seething with anger, he asked, "so this was your plan, then? Get me to do your dirty work for you? Honestly, even a chantry sister would make a better assassin than you. You have about ten seconds to get out of here before I banish you from Thedas itself, you deliriously incompetent boor."

In fact, Antonio had bolted out the door long before Rufus even began his final sentence. Upon realizing this, he stood up and asked the elf to guide him to the nearest washroom.

"Yes, come along, it's just this way," she said, guiding him by the hand. "You act as though you've been through this before. Have you?"

"More times than I care to recount, I'm afraid," Rufus affirmed. Making their way from the kitchens to the nearest washroom required them to use one of Skyhold's larger hallways, and before they could be clear of it, a third set of footsteps joined theirs, headed in the opposite direction.

"Oh, perfect. This is just what I need," the elf said, averting her eyes as Inquisitor Trevelyan stared accusing daggers at her.

"Hawke, is that you? Did this servant attack you?" she asked. "We've had problems with her before. Say the word and I'll send her straight to a prison cell."

"Don't worry about it, Inquisitor," Rufus said, defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lera's harsh reaction to the elf is actually a reference to a headcanon thread response I'd written earlier. The prompt was about characters our OCs had petty rivalries with or who they just couldn't get along with. The elven servant has been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time often enough that Lera's convinced she's a saboteur, a thief, and a political satirist. It's all happenstance, though, however unfortunate that may be.
> 
> Also, FUN FACT I wanted soooo badly to make the elf Shianni, which is why I avoided giving her a name entirely. I can't convince myself that Shianni (who became a bann in this world state) would leave the alienage to do something as meager as work in the Inquisition's kitchens. Nonetheless, Shianni served as inspiration for the character.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A battle of wills, a reunion, hope, sadness and regret

"I don't understand why you bother with that stuff, Hawke," Varric said, head shaking. "I really don't get it. We could be at the Hanged Man right now, playing Wicked Grace and ogling your Rivaini's breasts, but instead you're shut in here doing nothing."

"I'm not doing nothing, Varric. This is important," answered Rufus defiantly.

"Things this unnecessary are rarely important. Come on, at least take a break from that. You're the Champion of Kirkwall, you don't need to-"

"Varric, if the city of Kirkwall wants me to pay my taxes, I will pay the Maker-damned taxes! End of discussion!"

Varric rolled his eyes, turning his back to the diligently scribbling man sitting before him and raising his arms in frustration. "Hawke, I have plenty of contacts in the Merchants' Guild who could easily forge your tax documents for you. And that's _if_ you're stubbornly set on paying them to begin with. May I remind you that, as Champion, the city is basically yours?"

"Enough!" Rufus slammed his palms on the hard wood of his desk and turned to face the dwarf. "Rules exist for a reason, Varric. Just because I routinely find myself littering the streets with corpses doesn't mean I treat everything with such reckless abandon. Besides... _they_ started it."

"The Coterie's insistence on committing group suicide hardly has any bearing on whether Knight-Lunatic Meredith can hold you to tedious paperwork." Varric was getting impatient, though he still refused to leave without his friend. "Just blow it off. Taxes aren't even due for another week!"

Rufus, by now at his wits' end with Varric's insistence, did not deign to respond to his most recent protest, and instead began loudly humming the tune of a tavern song he'd written about Isabela's ample posterior before returning his focus to the forms on his desk.

"I can be loud and annoying, too, Hawke!" Varric cried before erupting into a decidedly unmusical flurry of _LA LA LA_ s. "I can go on like this all day!"

While the entire day was something of an exaggeration, the two did carry on with this medley of mutual irritation for several minutes before Rufus finally tired of it. Remembering he'd left a pie cooling in the kitchen, he decided to strike a bargain with his adversary.

"Alright, alright! Stop it! I get it! Andraste's ass, I don't know if I'd have survived another ten seconds of that."

Varric let slip a self satisfied grin. "I told you I could go on all day. So are we going to the Hanged Man or not?"

"Eventually. But I'm going to finish these taxes, and since you insist on being such a bother, I figure we might as well try to enjoy each other's company while we're here. There's a pie sitting on the kitchen counter. It's one of Gerran's. We can share it," Rufus finally relented.

"Rufus Hawke, sharing a pie? They'll never believe this one," Varric said calmly before going to retrieve the confection. He came back already having cut the pie in "half," taking care to make his side slightly larger, and set it down on the desk to Rufus' left. The two shared the pie over the course of the next half hour or so, and in another half hour after that, Rufus was finally finished filling out the forms. Considering his countless "incidents" with Kirkwall's more unsavory residents, his taxes ended up taking much longer to fill out than the average citizen's, and the entire affair ended up filling three full sheets of parchment and roughly one seventh of a fourth.

"It's about time!" Varric exclaimed, elated to see the journey to the tavern near at hand. "Now can we go?"

"Yes, Varric, now we can go. I just have to drop these off at the collection box and we can head straight there," Rufus explained, much to Varric's dissatisfaction.

"You can't be serious, Hawke. You have a whole week to do that!"

"A whole week, my point exactly! Do you have any idea how many near-death experiences I could have in that time? I'm not taking my chances with having to redo these blasted forms," he barked, tidying up the papers before standing up from his chair.

"Fair point," Varric conceded. "Just make sure you hold on to them tightly once we get out of here. It's pretty windy out today."

Rufus chuckled as he headed for the front door. "I defeated the Arishok in single combat, Varric. I think I can handle a slight breeze."

"If you say so..."

As it happened, it turned out that Varric's warning deserved heeding. The moment Rufus opened the door, a blast of wind flew straight into him, snatching the tax forms out of his hands and slapping them directly onto his face, where they remained stuck for several seconds as Rufus backpedaled and clawed at them to get them off. Finally succeeding at this with a vigorous yank, he lost his balance, landing squarely on his rear while the taxes continued their flight behind him. Before either of them could react, the forms flew one after the other into the open fireplace, instantly crumbling into ash along with all of Rufus' hopes that he would have a nice day. Stunned, Rufus simply stared in shock at the fireplace before collapsing onto his back, hands on his forehead, and letting out a tremendous groan.

Varric stood motionless at the door with one hand on its knob, resigned to the fact that Rufus and he would not be playing a rousing game of cards any time soon. "I'm going home, Hawke."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Remind me on how you talked me into this again?"

Varric stepped up to the imposing door standing in his and Hawke's way. "You coming in, Hawke?" he asked his hesitant friend.

Rufus simply stared at the sign above the entryway: Lady Gwen's Baking Academy. He sighed, before walking up to where Varric stood and giving the door a few stiff knocks.

"Remind me why I agreed to come here?" he asked.

"I think it had something to do with facing your fears. Either that or you're really bored today."

"I'm always bored when I'm not killing insane criminals."

After a few moments, a young woman in a chef's apron answered the knocks and let the two men in. Though little of her face and hair could be seen behind the various layers of flour, she was clearly very beautiful. Hawke wondered what such a pretty girl would be doing in such a terrifying place. While giving them a tour of the building and explaining the sign up process, she couldn't help but notice Hawke getting increasingly agitated.

"Are you alright, Ser? Do you need some water? You aren't allergic are you?" she gasped.

"Not allergic, no. But I can see the students here are all focused on pies. It makes me uneasy."

The girl did not bother asking why pies would make Rufus uneasy, instead simply explaining that the academy switches its focus every week to allow its students a diverse culinary education. This week, evidently, the focus was on pies.

"I can't imagine why you'd be distressed, Ser. Everyone loves pie!" she exclaimed. Her enthusiasm was clearly an attempt at recruitment.

"It's not my love of pies that worries me, it's their hatred of me," Rufus answered, beads of sweat sprouting on his brow as the woman led him and Varric into the academy's main kitchen, where a score of amateur chefs were laboring over the serval pies they'd all been tasked with baking. Just as the woman was going over the daily schedule, Rufus muttered something about saving everyone some time and sauntered over to one of the chef's stations, picking up a pie and smothering it all over his face. "I'm going home now, Varric. This wasn't very helpful."

Hawke's dejection didn't seem to disturb Varric, who'd seemingly taken a keen interest in baking after seeing the instructor. "Yeah, sure thing, Hawke, I'll see you around," he said, not even turning to face his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have a lot of time on my hands the day I wrote this one, so I figured that if I had to phone it in, Rufus might as well do the same!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion's pov on meeting your OC for the first time.

“My palatial suite in the Hanged Man is your palatial suite, Hawke.”

“How charming of you, Varric. Don’t suppose there would be anything to eat in this palatial suite of yours?” Rufus asked.

“Well, yes and no.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s one of Gerran’s pies sitting on the end table, but it’s mine. And after that stunt you pulled last time we played Wicked Grace, I’m not really in the mood to share.”

“Oh, really? I pity the man who tries to keep Rufus Hawke away from a pie. What flavor is it?”

“Saliva flavored, as far as you’re concerned. I mean it, Hawke, it’s mine.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Rufus pressed. He had no intentions of giving up.

“No, Hawke. We really won’t.” Evidently, neither did Varric.

The two men stared each other down for several moments, knowing what was about to happen next. They both stood about the same distance away from the table with the pie. One shifty eyed glance from Rufus was all it took to set them off. Crashing about the room, Rufus was the first to reach the pie, and thus it fell on him to keep it out of the dwarf’s hands for as long as possible. They struggled for some time, knocking over furniture and putting holes in the walls. At some point in all the confusion, Rufus kicked down the door of the suite and the wrestling match moved into the hallway, where one ill-fated step was all it took to send them both flying down the stairs, pie still in hand.

**_Meanwhile…_ **

_Well, that was quick_ , Isabela thought to herself after having humiliated the thugs after her money. Several loud and confusing thuds banged behind her as she took a victory swig of whatever foul concoction the Hanged Man had served her. _That’s odd… I could’ve sworn I won the fight already… How drunk am I?_

Louder and clearer impacts rang out which alerted her to the fact that she had, indeed, won the fight already. Clearly another conflict was just reaching its climax. She turned around to watch the commotion and found herself with a front row seat to an incredibly amusing brawl. Varric, the author and habitual drunkard as she knew him, was embroiled in a war with a bearded human for some reason. It looked as though they were struggling to gain control of some object, though what it was she could not guess. A few seconds into her observation, though, the taller man slipped backwards at the top of the stairs, tumbling down and taking Varric with him. On the way down, whatever they were fighting over—a pie, it seemed—escaped the man’s grip and made its way down by air rather than by land. The human landed on his back at the foot of the stairs, and both Varric and the pie landed face down on top of him, the latter plastering itself all over his face.

“Oh, not again!” he shouted. Isabela sympathized with his displeasure. If this hadn’t been the first time a pie had smothered his face, such anger was understandable. Varric, however, was inexplicably furious.

“That’s two of Gerran’s pies you’ve ruined for me, Hawke!” he shouted, conveniently explaining his reaction.

“How do you think I feel, Varric? I still have yet to actually _try_ one of his pies, because _you_ won’t let me!”

Isabela chuckled to herself before approaching the two men. She approached the tall one first, taking in the details of his strikingly chiseled profile as he picked himself up off the ground. “Don’t worry, lucky. They’re not that great,” she assured him. Before he could reply, she dragged her fingertip down across his cheek, stopping just short of his rugged and full beard, and sampled the pie’s filling. “Though I must admit, coming off of your face, they taste _much_ better.”

Hawke blushed slightly and seemed to be thinking of a response but was once again cut off, this time by Varric. “Not him, too, Rivaini. The poor kid’s still a halfway decent person. Don’t take that from him.”

Isabela ignored the plea, instead drawing another finger across the man’s pie-coated face and sucking the filling off. “Do you find much success in keeping pirates away from treasure, Varric?”

“Apparently not,” Varric sighed, noticing his friend’s obvious _interest_ in the dark skinned woman standing before him. “Just try to have him home by midnight. He’s not as tough as he looks.”

“Am too, Varric!” the human finally mustered. “Unless you’re… _into_ that?”

“Oh, I’m quite into that,” she informed him.

“Nice! I’m Rufus, by the way.”

“You don’t need to know my name, darling. Now, let’s get you upstairs and get the rest of that filling off…”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reunion with someone thought dead

Kirkwall simply could not catch a break. Only a month after the Arishok's defeat at his hands, Rufus became embroiled in yet another sinister plot devised by a crazy mage and a crazy Templar who simply did not get along. This time they took the fight to Hightown, littering corpses about the streets and generally stinking up the place. Stepping over two such corpses on his way home, Rufus asked himself why he bothered staying in such a terrible place.

And then it hit him. That smell. That wonderful, doughy smell. Gerran's Pie Emporium, Swords Sharpened Also sat nestled between an apothecary and a silk shop. _Hang on a minute_ , Rufus paused, _am I really staying in this city only because the pies are fantastic?_ He shook his head, disappointed with himself for thinking of pie before Varric or Isabela. That is, he was disappointed with himself until the decadent aroma that filled his nostrils grew even more powerful as he stepped closer to the bakery. _I can think of worse reasons..._ Deciding that it couldn't hurt to take a peek inside, Rufus opened the door and inhaled deeply, now unable to escape the clutches of his latest pie craving.

"GERRAN! How in the Void are you on this fine, corpses-strewn-about-the-streets day?!"

"Not half as good as you seem to be, Rufus!" Gerran was a portly and stout man, about half Rufus' height but twice as thick around the middle. He had the look of a greedy, seedy man, but never had Rufus met a kinder soul. "Oi, you two, get out of my shop! Make way for my favorite customer!" he shouted across the counter.

"You're too good to me, Gerran! What's the special today?"

"For the Champion of Kirkwall? _Everything's_ the special! You have only to name it, Rufus, and I'll scour Par Vollen itself for ingredients if need be."

"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary, my dear friend. How about you just surprise me?"

"Lucky you, I just put a surprise flavored pie in the oven! Now, what's this I'm 'earing about corpses being strewn about the streets? You haven't gotten yourself into more trouble have you, not so soon after last night?"

"I'm afraid these are last night's leftovers, actually. Apparently the city guard has better things to do than clean up dead bodies," Rufus explained, and for the next hour he and Gerran traded stories, coin, and finally pie before Rufus was finally on his way.

"Better get this home to Isabela before it gets cold. Thanks again, Gerran, and do have a brilliant day!"

When he stepped outside, Rufus found that his assessment of the city guard's use of time was no longer accurate. Carts now dotted the streets, each slowly filling up with bodies while masons and carpenters set to work building scaffolding to repair the damage done to the surrounding buildings. As he passed one such construction site, Rufus noticed a stray glyph still stuck on the building's wall. Wait, not a glyph... more like a...

"STOP! There's an active fire mine on that building!" Rufus shouted, but it was too late. The carpenter had already set it off, and before he knew it, he was falling two stories as the scaffolding crumbled beneath him in response to the blast. Rufus fled the scene, tossing the pie over his head and just barely managing to escape from the collapsing rubble. He heard someone yell something about having a broken leg, but was too fixated on his own grief to listen. As soon as he was clear of the danger, he turned around, fell to his knees, and cursed the Maker for making him lose yet another of Gerran's magnificent pies.

But there was hope yet, it seemed. As the dust cleared, not only was the carpenter's injury a mere dislocation, but Gerran's pie sat perfectly unharmed on the end of a long plank of wood. "You... you made it!" Rufus exclaimed, sprinting over to reunite himself with his treasured pie. "I can't believe you made it!"

Just as he knelt down over the pie to reclaim it, however, one of the masons was running over to check on the injured carpenter, and as (un)luck would have it, one of his heavy steps landed square on the other end of the plank, which happened to be resting on a sizable chunk of stone that acted as the fulcrum to the plank's lever. The pie was launched straight up, directly into Rufus' eager face, before he could even react. The force of the impact put him on his back, and there he lay for several heart-wrenching moments before finally dragging himself home to clean up.

The pie was a banana-nug with bits of carrots and celery in the filling. One of his favorites. Rufus did not leave his estate that day, too depressed to face any more of Kirkwall's inevitable insanity.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I told you we needed ten pies! Ten! Not one hundred! What am I supposed to do with one hundred pies?!"

"What?! You only brought me ten pies? I needed a hundred! What am I paying you for, you fat lazy worm?!" shouted the Orlesian at the portly delivery man, spraying saliva onto the white tablecloth covering with every word in his thick accent.

"Beggin' your pardon, Ser, but I have the invoice right 'ere: 10 pies, assorted flavor, to be delivered to this estate," Gerran explained calmly. "I'm still gettin' paid, right?"

"Of course you are not getting paid! I wanted ten times this amount of pie! You will never work in Hightown again, you filthy slob! Now hand them over!"

"Did I just 'ear you say hand 'em over? That's not how it works, see. You owe me three sovereigns and fifty silvers if you want this pie, otherwise I'm gone."

"I do not pay for botched labor, you rotund idiot! Now give me that pie!"

"Give me the three and a half sovereigns!"

"I will not!"

"Then you won't get this pie! I have a friend who I can give 'em to free of charge, but I'm afraid all you'll be gettin' is this right 'ere!" Gerran finished, making an obscene gesture with his free hand and pushing the cart of pies with the other. "Fuckin' Orlesians..." he muttered to himself.

In truth, Gerran had actually known all along the order was for a hundred pies, but someone else had paid him sixty sovereigns--almost twice the the cost of the order--to botch it. Some nobleman called Lord What'shisface de Whereverhe'sfrom, likely a rival of the man who placed the order looking to embarrass his foe with an ill-prepared dinner party. And since he'd paid in advance, the ten pies in the cart were basically free to go to anyone to which Gerran wished to give them.

###### Meanwhile...

"Isabela, come here, I have something to show you!" Rufus called, beckoning his lover into the living room. Her eyes widened in shock when she entered. "Amazing, right?"

"My, my, Rufus, what is this frilly abomination?" she asked.

"Frilly? It's not frilly! It's simply _festooned_ with intimidating ribbons! Like the banners of war!"

"The banners of war? Your small clothes don't need to look like the banners of war," she advised.

"And why not? It's stately and impressive!" Rufus fought.

"Hawke, if you put those on, I'm not going to touch you for a week," Isabela explained before being interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door.

Rufus' nose scrunched up as the smell wafted into the estate from outside. "I know those knocks..."

Rufus was on his way to the door when more knocks were accompanied by the muffled voice of none other than Gerran the baker: "Oi, open up, Hawke! Special delivery!"

"GERRAN! Always happy to see you!" Rufus began upon opening the door. "Come inside, I want your opinion on something to settle an argument."

"Afraid I can't do that, Hawke, much as I'd love to. Been away from the shop too long already. I'm just 'ere to give you these: ten pies, assorted flavor!"

"I don't remember ordering these," Rufus said, perplexed but intrigued.

"That's because you didn't! Some Orlesian tosser did, and then some other Orlesian tosser paid me to mess up the order. But I've still got ten pies ready to go, so here you are! Free of charge!" Gerran announced with a toothy smile.

"Oh, Gerran, you are too good to me. Are you sure you don't want to move in?" Rufus asked. He then helped Gerran wheel the cart inside so they could transfer the pies from cart to counter. With three pies already transferred to the counter, Rufus noticed his drawers still sitting on the marble surface with them. He quickly scooped them up to tell Isabela to get them out of sight, but unfortunately, one of the banners he'd affixed to them had been caught underneath one of the pies, and when he tugged at the underwear the pie fell from the counter, splattering its innards across the tile floor.

"Well, I guess it's only nine pies now, right, Hawke?" Gerran asked.

"Looks that way," Rufus said, before stepping forward to help unload the rest of the pastries. Stepping forward carelessly. He failed to notice the peach slice on the floor in front of him and lurched forward the moment he put his weight on it, slipping on the smooth ground and landing chest first on the empty side of the cart. His body proved too heavy for the cart to remain upright, causing the entire thing to flip onto its side and deposit all seven of its pies directly onto his body, followed by the tablecloth.

Rufus did not move, and it took until they removed the tablecloth for Isabela and Gerran to see that one of the pies had hit the side of his face. From the looks of it, it was a cranberry druffalo.

"Maker, why?" Rufus groaned. "I'll have cranberries stuck in my ears for weeks, I'm certain of it!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An assassination attempt is made against your OC. Write about how they handle it or their LI handles it.

"Varric? Isabela?"

"Yes, Hawke?" they answered simultaneously.

"Where are you taking me?"

"You'll see," Varric said.

"It'll be a delightful surprise, Rufus, I promise," Isabela spoke with a wink.

"Fair enough. But I'm suspicious of all this. This sort of secrecy... it isn't like you guys."

Rufus' suspicions were not unfounded. Varric and Isabela were both fairly up front about most things. All this sneaking around wasn't very conventional behavior for them. Still, he supposed there couldn't be any harm in following them. They were two of his closest friends, after all. They led him through the winding streets of Lowtown, which was already a risky operation to undertake at night, eventually coming to a stop a short way off from Gamlen's house.

"I don't get it. There's nothing here," Rufus said, crossing his arms.

"Are you sure about that?" Varric asked. "Look closer."

"At what? This here?" he asked, pointing at the only door in the small courtyard. "It's just a door. You don't expect me to open it, do you? I can't just barge into someone's private property."

"It's a vacant space, Lucky," Isabela assured him. "Just go on in."

Feeling uneasy, Rufus went ahead and opened the door, immediately being greeted by the loud, raucous cries of, "SURPRISE!" from several of his friends. Unimpressed, Rufus took stock of the room: Merrill stood in the corner, seemingly upset with herself for not finding a better hiding spot. Anders leaned casually against a candle-lit table in the center of the room with a smug grin plastered on his face. Aveline, right behind him, was attempting to remove him from the table lest he drag the tablecloth with him and ruin the entire evening. Sebastian stood behind them all, raising his eyebrows and gesturing toward the table. Apparently he was the one who'd set it.

But by far the most prominent detail in the room was the lone pie that sat on the table, its lovely scent wafting across the room into Rufus' nostrils.

"Happy birthday, Lucky," Isabela told him, kissing him on the cheek.

"So," Rufus began, squinting around at all of his companions. "This is how you planned to do it?"

"Do what?" Anders asked, offended.

"Don't play dumb with me, Anders!" Rufus yelled. "You all know perfectly well that my birthday isn't until next week!"

"That's why it's a surprise, Hawke," Sebastian explained.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's very obvious what's really going on here. So who put you all up to this?"

"No one put us up to anything, Hawke," Merrill answered calmly. "Unless you mean who put us up in this room, in which case, still no one."

"She's right," Anders said. "This was all our idea. A joint effort, really."

"I can't believe this. Why?"

"Because we're your friends, Hawke," Aveline said.

"And that's supposed to make it _better_? I'd have expected this from Sebastian or even Merrill. But you, Aveline? Why would you want to kill me?"

"Who said anything about killing you?" Varric asked.

"What? I'm just supposed to believe that pie on the table is a birthday pie? You couldn't honestly believe I'd have fallen for it."

"No, we actually meant for you to sit down," Merrill replied.

"Of course you did. That would make it all easier, wouldn't it? I've read enough snuff books to know where this is going. If I've come this far, there's already no escape. Do what you must," Rufus said, accepting his impending demise.

"We sort of already did that, Hawke," Sebastian piped up. "That's what yelling surprise was about."

"Look, Anders went through a lot of trouble baking you this pie, Lucky, and the poor boy will feel very disheartened if you don't eat it with us. You couldn't bear to make that pretty face of his frown, could you?"

"She's right," Anders said, stepping forward. "I had to gather ingredients from the Gallows!"

"Anders, no!" Aveline shouted, her fears coming true. "The tablecloth!"

The white linen adorning the table had indeed snagged on one of the rings in Anders' coat, and by the time he'd made it halfway across the room to Rufus, the pie was already on its way to the ground. Thinking quickly, Merrill lurched forward, attempting to catch the pie with her staff. Rather than break its fall, however, she launched it into the air on a collision course with Rufus' face. The familiar, scratchy burning spread over his eyes, nose, and cheek yet again as he fell backwards with a dramatic yelp.

"Maker damn it, I was calling your bluff!" he screamed, writhing in pain and clutching his chest. "I didn't think you'd actually try to off me!"

"No one tried to off you, Rufus, it was an honest mistake!"

"As if I would believe that, Aveline! You probably set it all up yourself! I should have known the guards were secret assassins! The evidence was all there!"

"Wait, what? Is there evidence of guards assassinating people?" Aveline gasped.

"Of course there is," Rufus answered weakly. "You're looking at it."

"Calm down Lucky, we can still save the night. Remember when we met, hm? You had pie on your face and I helped you get it off. We can do that again!"

"Isabela... after everything we've been through..." Rufus began, apparently struggling to breathe. "I just want to know why."

"Stay with me, Hawke, please!"

"Just tell me why!" he choked. The other attendees stood aghast, some with hands covering their mouths, others with their heads bowed in sadness.

"I'll tell you if you stay with me!" she yelled, cradling his head and holding his hand. Her worried brows were scrunched up over tear glistened eyes. "Just hold on, Lucky! Just hold on."

"I... just... need to know... why..." Rufus finished, closing his eyes with a final sigh and laying motionless in Isabela's lap.

"No! Hawke! Don't go!" she shouted, shaking him.

"Andraste's ass," Varric said, palm on his face. "You all remember he's not actually dying, right? It's just a pie."

"What?" Isabela asked.

"It's just a pie, Rivaini. He's fine."

"Oh, right. Get up, Hawke," she ordered as sense reasserted itself. "Happy birthday."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This is not what I expected to be dealing with when I joined you."

Sebastian watched the clouds roll by while he waited for Hawke to pick him up. They agreed to meet in front of the Chantry at mid-day. Naturally, Sebastian had shown up an hour early, noting to Elthina on his way out that punctuality is one of the Maker’s favored virtues. Unfortunately, Rufus Hawke was not among the virtuous. It took him until an hour and a half past mid-day to show up, sweaty and out of breath. Wanting to make a good first impression as this would be his first outing with the group, however, Sebastian stayed put until Hawke approached at last. The dwarf, Varric, was with him, as was the dark skinned woman from the day he and Rufus met. She was playing with his hair.

“Greetings, Hawke!” he said cheerfully, attempting to mask his displeasure at being kept waiting. “I imagine you were kept busy by your duties?”

“Oh, yes,” Hawke spoke, panting between words. “Duties. Absolutely. Many, many duties.”

“He’s a busy man,” Varric told him. Somehow, he and the Rivaini were still breathing normally.

Sebastian looked at her, waiting to see if she would interject, but instead she simply looked him up and down with hungry eyes. Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in response and turned to face Hawke again.

“So, what did you need me for? Are we going to right wrongs? Collect donations? Investigate the Qunari? I brought my bow, just in case.” Hawke, now doubled over with one hand on his knee, held up the other in the shape of a silencing finger. Sebastian waited patiently for him to speak.

“Yes!” he gasped. “Righting wrongs! Exactly!”

“What’s got you in such an exhausted state Hawke?” he finally asked, letting his curiosity get the better of his polite distance.

“Varric bet him he couldn’t sprint from his estate to Lowtown and back in under five minutes before we came over here,” the woman answered. “He couldn’t.”

“Thank you, er…” 

“Isabela. Though, _you_ can call me whatever you like,” she added with a wink.

Sebastian cleared his throat, thinking of Andraste to distract himself from some fond memories of his exciting nights in Starkhaven. Finally, it seemed, Hawke was beginning to catch his breath. Perhaps now he would get some clarification as to what the four of them were doing.

“So! I need your help, Sebastian, because these two are of no use to me right now. We’re trying to find a storefront in Hightown, but Varric refuses to help and Isabela’s vision is still a bit hazy from last night. You’re an archer, right? You must have good eyes! The store we’re looking for is supposed to have a running man on the sign.”

“Why is this store so vital?” Sebastian asked. “Surely there are more pressing matters in the city than that. Unless… is the store related to the Qunari somehow, or something worse?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, just help me find that store.”

Sebastian, still unsure about whether this was a useful endeavor at all, followed Rufus around all throughout Hightown, dodging invasive questions from Varric and invasive glances from Isabela while looking for the running man on the sign. Maker, is this what it had come to? The Prince of Starkhaven spending his day trudging through a foreign city in an attempt to find a nondescript shop? His feet were beginning to tire, no doubt a sign that this was not the Maker’s path and that they should all go home and rethink their lives, but then he saw it. Swaying in the breeze, a wooden sign with a bright yellow and green painting of a man in full sprint.

“There it is!” he cried excitedly, a wave of satisfaction crashing over him as he completed the task assigned to him. “Now, what are we here for? Is this store a front for lyrium smuggling?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Hawke replied. “Let’s go in. Do you smell that, Varric? Not a chance.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Hawke,” the dwarf answered. “You won’t know for sure until you try it.”

“Not a chance? Try what?” Sebastian asked, hoping for some sense to enter the realm of conversation. “You don’t mean to suggest trying lyrium, do you?”

“What? Of course not!” Rufus exclaimed. “Why would I need to do that? I’m not a mage.”

“Then what have we come to investigate?”

“Heard of Gerran’s pies?” Isabela asked him, rolling her eyes. “This is his rival’s shop, Porgie’s Pies. Porgie claims to have better pies than Gerran.”

“That he does, Isabela,” Rufus confirmed. “We’re here to prove him wrong. Gerran’s pies are the best in the city.”

“I’ve been hearing troubling things about this place, Hawke,” interjected Varric. “His pies might actually be better.”

“Ha! Not worth the tins they’re baked on, more likely. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. Varric, you’ll order two flavors, and Isabela, you’ll order one…”

Sebastian ignored the rest of Hawke’s plan, having just come to terms with the fact that he spent an entire afternoon hunting for a pie shop rather than serving the Maker. He wanted to roll his eyes at the wasted time, but instead grit his teeth and soldiered on, hoping for more satisfying work in the future. 

“Sebastian, you should probably get the fish and egg pie. It’ll make more sense coming from you.”

“Very well, Hawke,” he said with a sigh.

In they went. Varric ordered first, followed by Isabela. They sat at separate tables on Hawke’s orders, the aim being to avoid suspicion, though suspicion of _what_ , Sebastian could not guess. Then it was his turn. Porgie, if that was indeed the person at the counter, was a slender, middle aged man with various unsightly tattoos and several golden teeth. Fighting the urge to inform him that the Maker’s love is accepting of all of his children and that the body modifications were thusly unnecessary, Sebastian simply asked for a fish and egg pie before finding a table with a good view of the counter and sitting down. He then watched as Rufus attempted to order his own pie. 

Hawke stood at the counter for several seconds without speaking, instead preferring to stare suspiciously at the man behind the counter, who stared suspiciously right back.

“Anythin’ I can get you?” Porgie asked in a low rasp. “I haven’ got time to sit about, y’know. I’ve got orders to fill.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed further until he finally spoke. “Give me your best pie,” he demanded simply, arms crossed. Sebastian wondered why he’d become so severe all of a sudden. This side of Hawke was very different from the jovial impression Sebastian had of him. Perhaps his faith had been shaken and his spirits were down? He resolved to ask Hawke about it later, at the Chantry.

Porgie waited several seconds before answering him, eyeing him with uncertainty or hesitation. “Comin’ righ’ up,” he finally said, turning towards the kitchen to begin preparing the orders.

Hawke took a seat at the table in front of Sebastian, looking around the room as though inspecting it for construction faults. An hour later, five pies came out of the oven and were served at their tables. Sebastian dug into his, trying to guess what Hawke’s issue with the pies might be. A few seconds into his second bite, he was distracted by the thunderous clap of Rufus’ hands on the wooden table in front of him.

“You son of a whore!” he shouted into the kitchens. 

Sebastian sprang up from his seat to figure out what had gotten Rufus into such a fury, though it soon became obvious. Using his fork, Porgie had written _SPY BASTARD_ into the pie’s crust. Isabela cackled in amusement, meanwhile Varric shook his head, some variant of “I told you so” playing on his lips. Rufus leapt over the counter and ran into the kitchen shouting some obscenities about how Gerran’s pies were unrivaled in taste and quality. Maker, what had he gotten himself into?

The cacophonous crashing of pots and pans that followed Hawke’s rush into the kitchen were followed by a wet thud and a cry in Porgie’s voice: “Serves you righ’ you sneaky shite! Comin’ up into my shop and judgin’ my pies, smashin’ everythin’ up like you own the place! I know it was Gerran ‘oo sent you! Get the hell out of my shop! You’re banned, you ‘ear me? Banned for life!”

Rufus emerged from the kitchen slowly, pie filling dripping from his beard. Varric chuckled to himself while Isabela rushed over to drag her finger across his face and lick the filling off. 

“I have to admit, Hawke, when you said we’d be righting wrongs, this is not what I expected,” Sebastian said, stifling laughter. Somehow, seeing Hawke’s face covered in blueberry and chicken filling made the entire day worth it. “But if this is what I can expect from accompanying you, I’m glad to be by your side.”


End file.
